


Work For What You Love to Do and I Will Watch Right Over You

by Mekin



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Domestic Fluff, Hannibal Lecter Falls in Love with a Statue, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal Lecter is a Softie, Hannibal is Hannibal, Hannibal's red sweater, I'll see myself out, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal Lecter, Manipulative Relationship, Obsessive Hannibal Lecter, Sculptor Hannibal, Statue Will, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Will Graham Loves Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham is a Mess, Will becomes the reason for Hannibal's recurring nightmares, everything will knows about himself is purely invented by hannibal, excessive nudity, like almost a little too much, little bit of crack because I can't help myself, not all sexual though because will just hates clothing, seriously it's mostly fluff, the will graham we know and love doesn't technically exist in this AU, wholesome will graham, will absolutely terrorizes hannibal, will doesn't understand humans, will is as thick as a brick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22014166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mekin/pseuds/Mekin
Summary: Based on the Greek myth of Pygmalion and Galatea, where Pygmalion is a disillusioned sculptor that makes his perfect partner out of clay and the sculpture eventually comes to life. Hannibal takes up sculpting and decides to create someone that won’t get on his nerves; he treats his sculpture kindly and not unlike a living, breathing person, calling it ‘darling’ and ‘lovely’ and reading beside it in the evening. A few months after Hannibal finishes his sculpture, he is shocked to find it missing; in its place, he instead discovers a confused, naked young man bearing a surprising resemblance to his artwork.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 39
Kudos: 206





	1. i. danse suppliante de chloé, m. 57

During the Ripper’s self-imposed months of absence, Hannibal’s love for fine art and anatomy had manifested itself in the form of a new hobby: sculpting. While he couldn’t often devote himself to projects, there was something cathartic about the wet weightiness in his hands; while clay was nowhere near as satisfying to transform as human flesh and bodies, it allowed him complete freedom to do as he pleased and restart whenever he wished. Being the perfectionist that he was, his works were often repurposed with just a handful of water and a thorough kneading.

After a few years of learning through trial and error, he couldn’t help but pride himself in his skill.

Pots and plates were simple things that could be formed and fired within a few weeks, schedule permitting, and dinner guests and acquaintances alike were always delighted to have a piece of his work presented as a gift.

“How thoughtful,” they’d croon, cupping a plate to their chests, the sparring Grecian youths or winding trees detailed beneath the lacquer hidden beneath frail wrists and arms. Hannibal gave away more of his works than he kept, and he knew they were becoming a commodity within Baltimore’s high-society crowd. An invitation to one of Hannibal Lecter’s dinner parties was no small accomplishment, but being entreated to one of his private pottery works? It may as well be a declaration of friendship. One-sided, of course, but he was content not to mention it.

Beyond basic pottery, Hannibal enjoyed bringing full figures to life. In his earlier years, they had been small, demure little things; faceless, lacking detail, able to be crushed in his palm should they not measure up to his expectations (and they often didn’t). Now, however, with his freezer full and bloodlust sated for the next few months, he had more time, more frustration with which to mold a boring medium into something beautiful. Early evenings in the week were reserved for dredging up sketches and maquettes of his designs, and he often thought to immortalize some of his more artistic killings in clay. After Miriam Lass, however, he knew better than to produce anything that might replicate his work as the Chesapeake Ripper. He stuck to original creations, and his muse often brought him to fantastical places, depicting mythical beasts or ancient fables in stark black-and-white charcoal and, later on, bent wire or wax. 

His favorites were always the life-sized depictions of men and women.

Unassuming and natural in their beauty, Hannibal had a knack for capturing the charm nestled in their ordinariness. His hands lovingly shaped the ample swells of hips and breasts, damp fingers applying enough pressure to create the curve of ribs or the soft slope of an exposed hipbone. He worked tirelessly on hands and feet until his own shook with the strain, and even then, his devotion to their realism couldn’t begin to compare to the painstaking delicacy with which he detailed every face. He spent the most time here, calloused knuckles pressing in to provide the slight indentation of the temples and cheekbones, precision accomplished with a fettling knife and other tools. Even with expensive tools at his disposal, Hannibal did as much as he could with his fingers, preferring to watch the clay _become_ while in his direct influence. He treated his creations with reverence, but none more so than his most recent sculpture.

The idea had come to mind over dinner, and Hannibal couldn’t help but latch on to it. Lips curved around a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon, he chased the shifting details of the man through his mind, the slanting hallways in his mind palace stark white and stretching to hide his idea from him. It wasn’t a typical chase for him, no; this was leisurely, lacking the finality of a predator seeking prey. The man brought him to a stream, peering over his shoulder with a grin, and Hannibal waded into it without hesitating. Water kissed his cheeks and lapped at his ankles and soon he was drowning, sinking, and the man laughed and cupped his jaw and kissed him. Hannibal lay in his arms without fighting, then, and it was only when he became aware of the unpleasant sensation of something wet that he realized he’d dropped his wineglass in his lap, fingers twitching, clutching at something- rather, _someone_ \- that didn’t exist. Rich, red wine pooled on his plate and dribbled down into his lap, and he exhaled sharply through his nose before mopping himself up.

“Devastating boy,” he huffed, lips flexing to display a crooked smile.

His work on what he’d affectionately coined “Brangusis” began that evening, after he’d wrapped up his pants and waistcoat to be dry-cleaned.

There hadn’t been a life-sized sculpture yet that had passed muster in Hannibal’s eyes, and so Brangusis had much to live up to. It was no easy task, emulating the disembodied mischief and laughter of the vision that had dazzled Hannibal, and it only grew more difficult when his time was sapped away by things as trivial as maintaining his social life and his psychiatric practice. When he wasn’t considering the best way to convince Mrs. Montinaro that her dry marriage bed didn’t need to be described in such vivid detail, he plotted down the contours of Brangusis’ face, the leanness of his body. The strokes of the pencil on paper were made with adoration behind each one, layered until his boy’s youth blossomed from the canvas and seemed to spill into the sitting room. It was many weeks later that he finally sequestered enough time to melt his wax maquette, and even then, the process was agonizing. Not one to often trip up, Hannibal burned himself thrice when attempting to form the torso properly, carving out his delicate ribs and concave stomach with a scalpel. He worked until his eyes watered, and even after consigning himself to sleep and work the next day, his mind lingered on doing his vision justice. Brangusis was stunning, and Hannibal wouldn’t shame him by molding something half-assed.

All in all, it took over thirteen and a half months for Hannibal to finish him.

His face had proven difficult, as Hannibal had never gotten a clear look at it, but he’d done the best he could, drawing from his memory, imagination, and other works of art with which he was enamored.

Thick, wild curls crowned the man’s slight head, his jaw smooth enough to indicate juvenescence. Hannibal had provided a sturdy neck and shoulders to support him, but even then, he was the embodiment of boyish energy, captured in a position meant to replicate his running away- something he did without fail when Hannibal imagined him. He looked slightly over his left shoulder, spine twisted, muscles visible beneath smooth skin; the clay had dried near perfectly, although his stomach had split nearly in two above the navel, giving the appearance of a nasty scar or wound. Hannibal could have cried at the imperfection. The forehead had similarly cracked, although not as severely as the stomach had, but he still felt the sting of failure for it. Thick, arched eyebrows added depth to widened doe-eyes, and soft, slightly-bowed lips gave the impression of innocence to an otherwise-mischievous creature. When he stepped back, Hannibal noted that the nose was slightly crooked, but he felt it added to the novelty. Brangusis was near-perfect, but even he could not accomplish what Hannibal craved. Dimples were carved into his cheeks with a gentle press from the side of Hannibal’s thumb, and subsequent dimples were pushed more firmly on either side of his spine, resting above where his pelvis would be. Hannibal left him bare, though not out of perversion; his nudity was natural, chaste, showcasing the boy’s purity. His legs, similarly uncovered, were sleek and sinewy with muscle, flexed to show action. His hands and feet were painstaking in their own right; whereas he’d never put much thought into them before, he was almost indisposed with anxiety trying to make appropriate pairs for his boy. Sculpting the genitalia proved to be the most aggravating part of the process, however, as looking up a reference only provided him with a flood of frankly _disgusting_ Google Images.

Even after he’d finished actively working on Brangusis, Hannibal wished to be near him. Something about the boy’s lips, quirked in a knowing smile, soothed the man, and he found himself in the repurposed study many a night with a drink in hand. For the first few days he studied how the clay was drying and made minor fixes where they were needed, but other than that, he simply lingered in the darkened studio, shifting foot-to-foot like a shy child at a family function. Once the days bled into weeks, he slowly introduced life into the study, dragging an accent chair in from his living area and producing his record player. He listened to the music peacefully, allowed Brangusis to listen to it, and then retired to bed once they’d gone through a decent stack of records.

He didn’t start talking to the statue until the third month.

It had started off innocently enough; Hannibal had been occupied with the paper in his hands and walked right into the stationary man. Some unknown feeling throttled him then, seeing the wobble to the boy’s pedestal, and he’d all but thrown his arms around the sculpture, stilling it.

“Forgive me,” he’d breathed, and then he laughed- begging forgiveness from a statue? How quaint. The habit stuck, however, and so whenever Hannibal visited his dear boy after that evening, it was always punctuated with greetings, sometimes cheerful, other times sullen, and still some other times hardly discernible. He described what (or who) he’d prepared for dinner, talked at length about the record that was playing in the background, or detailed what petty issues his patients had conjured up that day. Brangusis, ever-faithful, lent his ear to Hannibal, and the man felt all-the-more fond of his creation with each night he spent rambling at his feet. When conversation grew dry, Hannibal resorted to books, and it was within the mesh of the stories that he felt his darling boy come to life. Fiction, field guides, histories, medical encyclopaedias; he read them all to his creation, and found that he enjoyed the passive companionship far more than he’d originally believed he would.

He couldn’t consistently sit with his newfound inamorato, work be damned, and it was even more unfortunate when he was called out of state for business-related ventures. His most recent trip had him driving out to Philadelphia for some psychiatric convention of sorts, and although the drive wasn’t long, he’d be housed at the convention center there for the weekend.

He wouldn’t get to see his Brangusis for four days.

It shouldn’t have been such a big deal, really, as four days was nothing when compared to the months they hadn’t been able to sit together and talk while the boy was only halfway completed. Still, four days was enough to stir something tight in his chest, and Hannibal didn’t want to acknowledge it. He left for Pennsylvania after reading from a manual on floral arrangements, pressing a kiss between the boy’s eyebrows and leaving the book open on the chair, ready to be continued upon his return home.

The convention was pretty standard; the speakers, while informative, were largely uninspiring, and Hannibal witnessed one too many drunken trysts to maintain a positive opinion on the outing. The drive back to Baltimore was just as uneventful as the entire weekend had been, and he was growing restless, wanting to check on the condition of his sculpture. Some of the areas close to the abdominal gash had begun to crumble and flake, and the last thing he wanted to return home to was his darling bisected at the middle, having collapsed during his leave.

Unlocking the front door, Hannibal drew in a deep breath and allowed himself a moment to release his tight grip on his composure. His shoulders sagged as he removed his coat, and he slipped his shoes off, leaving them in a messy pile by the door. There were far more important things to address, but he needed to see his dear.

His smile, slight as it was, faded the closer he moved to the studio.

The scent of wet clay and sweat flooded his senses, and he seamlessly fetched a scalpel from one of the drawers of his bedroom nightstand before slinking further down the hall to confront whoever it was that had desecrated his statue. When he reached the door, he held his breath a moment, eyes roving dangerously over the handle, before cracking it open and concealing the scalpel behind his back, ready to tack an extra figure on to his most recent sounder of three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Brangusis" is Lithuanian for "darling," courtesy of Google. :''')
> 
> Here's [the myth that this is based upon.](http://mythman.com/pygmal.html) I'm not certain that this will incorporate any actual elements of Greek mythology or characters, but it's fun to know the backstory!  
> 


	2. ii. goldberg variations, bwv 988: aria da capo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone discovers the absolute joy that is taking a shower. The water bill at the end of the month will be absolutely horrific, without a doubt.
> 
> Hannibal is referred to as 'the other' (and later on 'the man'), while Will is referred to as 'the man' until he is named. Sorry for the confusion! (Edits made as of 1/04.)

When his eyes first opened, he couldn’t help but flinch at the sunlight that slid through the windows. His face, youthful and sweet despite the horizontal scar on his temple, cringed away from the evening glow of the sun, the vibrancy overwhelming. Pinks and reds and the stagnant yellow of the lamplights outside washed over the room, soaking through the curtains and blanketing the wood-paneled walls with color. He raised a hand to his face and noted with no small amount of intrigue that his skin was rosy beneath the clay scales that had hardened along his arms and the inner flesh of his legs. His body was stiff, unforgiving when he moved too quickly, but the gentle warmth seeping from his body reassured him of his vitality. He didn’t breathe, didn’t dare speak; the quiet in the sun-dappled study consumed him, and he found himself more fond of observing the room rather than exploring it. With aching limbs, he settled on the pedestal below him and noted with subdued curiosity that his feet, fingers, and nose were chilly-- and how strange a thought that was, had he ever experienced cold before?

He knew of earthly pleasures and sensations, but couldn’t recall specific memories of any; in fact, he couldn’t remember anything beyond this moment, opening his eyes and bearing witness to the Baltimore sunset. The wind licked over areas where clay still clung to him, and the man shivered, finally taking notice of his nudity. Had he always been naked? A sheet lay on the floor beside him, adequately rumpled and dirtied, but nothing about it resembled clothing.

Odd.

He extended his leg to pull it over and admired the smoothness of his skin as he did so, flexing the tendons in his ankle and rubbing them with his thumb and forefinger. When he retrieved the cloth, he draped it over his shoulders and beneath his thighs, relieved from the cold marble of the podium. The ambient noise of traffic swept in from the window when he turned his head toward it, and it was out of curiosity alone that the man stood (the sheet still wrapped comfortably around his torso) and crossed over to it, his footsteps awkward and uneven. He rested his hands palms-down on the ledge and leaned out of the open window, eyes watering at the steep drop in temperature. A shudder ran from his neck to his back, and he shifted his feet around, soaking in the view.

Cars crawled along the road like beetles with shells of every color, and lights danced across their sides and backs with the blinking changes of the stoplights and the fading sun. People clad in thick coats and fabrics made their way up and down the sidewalk at their own paces, some leisurely, others hurried, as if they might never make it to their destination with enough time to spare. He wished them well and continued to watch, trees shaking themselves free of snow and rain before him. The man took note of the trees and shrubbery in the front yard of the home he must be in and withdrew from the window with his brows furrowed, lips pursing. If this was his home- and it looked to be a rather large one- did he share it with anyone else? A face came to mind, but no name with it, and he froze at the window once more when he realized he _couldn’t recall his own name._

He must have been thinking too loud, because he alerted to the sound of footsteps soon after, soft sighs of fabric against the floor that had him flexing his toes empathetically. Who else was there? The door opened a slit, and the man watched as another prowled through, eyes soft and sweet as they followed his path until the two were staring each other down across the room. While the name still evaded him, the face and fondness enveloped him almost immediately. This was the man whom he loved, wholeheartedly, and who loved him back. He was sure of that. 

When the other slid fully into the room, the man at the window shifted his posture, drawing his spine straighter and allowing his shoulders to relax. Muted affection throbbed in his chest, and he graced the room with a smile when the other studied him, inclining his head. While he couldn’t dredge up any memories of the man that weren’t fuzzy around the edges, he knew the softness of his lips and the warmth of his palm, how it felt curved around his hipbone or settled innocently on the round of his thigh.

“Hello,” the well-dressed man ventured, his tongue curling at the end as if he had more to say but cut himself off. He looked thoughtful, almost confused; probably because of the lack of clothes, but then again, his nudity hadn’t felt out of place or wrong when he’d woken up from his nap. “May I ask- how did you get in here?”

That was where the confusion thickened. This was his house, the other knew him; why was he acting like they’d never met? The man shifted the cloth around his body and moved from the window, and he watched the other slide further into the room along the back wall, as if engaging in a dance from afar; every time he moved, the other countered him. 

Turning away, the man wordlessly looked over the walls and the study. The light had begun to die, blanketing the room in darkness, but even then it was familiar. He made his way to the armchair that had retained the shape of the other’s body in its cushioning and ran his fingers over the well-loved pages of the opened book on its arm, mouth smarting up into a smile at the contents. This was the book of flowers, then. He knew the names of all of the buds hidden within the pages and the meanings they carried when utilized in a bouquet, memorized after many nights were dedicated to reading the manual aloud. He dragged his thumb across the top margin and faltered only when he noticed the page they’d stopped on: _‘Dianthus barbatus.’_

Sweet William. 

The man, to his credit, didn’t lurch away when he felt the presence of the other concentrated suddenly behind his shoulder, nor did he flinch when he noticed the blade in his hand. Instead, he lifted the book almost reverently and offered it to the other, glowing with satisfaction when it was accepted. He watched dark eyes rove over the pages and then over himself, and he preened beneath the attention, his face radiating joy. Something seemed to click, then, because the other man inclined his head again and gave a smile of his own, canine tooth poking endearingly too far into his lip.

“You’d like to be called William, I assume?”

His grin was apparently all the answer the other needed.

The freshly-monikered William watched as the silvery blade was disregarded, folded into a drawer beneath the desk across the room, before its owner returned to his side, thigh coming to rest against the back of the armchair. They stared at one another for a long time before the other spoke again, eyes burning bright.

“Can you speak, William?”

While the man did so enjoy the deep timbre of the other’s voice, he was much more interested in the way his mouth shaped its words. Will’s eyes reflected the other’s curiosity, and he smoothed his fingers over the bow of the other’s lips and the bulb of his nose without shame, seemingly delighted with his findings. He opened his mouth as if to talk, throat flexing, but nothing came from him. Instead, his nose suddenly scrunched itself up, and, with a violent jolt, he sneezed and fell back, tripping back over the armchair and losing his balance. Fine clay dust shuddered from his skin and hair and filled the air, and his feet kicked up small, chalky clouds of white from where they had been planted. He never hit the ground, however; the other’s hand had darted out amidst the dust and encircled his wrist, and it was with a firm tug that Will now found himself back on his feet, albeit trapped in the other’s grip. He watched the skin beneath the others’s fingers turn pink, then red, and flexed his fingers, running the pads of them across the top of the other’s thumb where he could reach. The gesture was acknowledged with a squeeze of his wrist and then the hand loosening, and Will instinctively cupped the hand with his other one, admiring the returning color with wide eyes. Blues and purples slowly began to rise to the surface of his skin, and the other man seemed to notice this as well, as the dilation of his pupils and the hitch of breath in his chest were fairly obvious changes in the stillness of the room.

Moving to wipe his face, Will hesitated when he felt at his lips and discovered the sensation of wetness. His features softened with amusement when he pressed two fingers to his tongue, then, and he wiped them on his thigh, shivering when the cold air from the open window kissed him there. The other man also found his antics amusing, as he was rewarded with a low chuckle and shake of his head.

Will very much liked when the man laughed, he found.

While he didn’t quite jump at the hand that settled beneath his shoulder blade, he did contort himself to try to look at it, eyebrows arching up into his forehead. He lifted his own hands to hold the arm, then, and his lips parted on a weak huff of air when he discovered the curio that was _arm hair._ He didn’t have any bodily hair of his own, as he’d discovered, other than the clay-flattened curls on his head; it would likely grow in after a few months, but still, the feeling of soft, prickly hairs against his hand was of great interest to him. He rubbed his palms from the other’s wrist up to his elbow, pushing his sleeves back as far as they would go, and, in cruel happiness, began plucking some of the hairs from the skin. The other man didn’t wince, but instead watched him, his face unreadable.

Hands slid from his arms, then, and up the broad slope of his shoulders until they came to rest on his throat and jaw. He wasn’t soft and smooth as Will was, especially not here; stubble lined the surface of his tan skin, and the curious man traced the contours of the other’s face for a while before simply cupping his chin and beaming up at him. The sentiment was returned, as Will soon found his own face under scrutiny. One of the sculptor’s hands supported his jaw, while the other was utilized to explore the different facets of it, touch light as air. The man’s thumb slid over the crooked curve of his nose, and, under Will’s watchful gaze, moved up to graze the scar along his forehead, which had manifested as a pale, pink line an inch or so below his hairline. The mutual observation continued with a hand delving into thick, heavy hair, clumps of clay holding tight to some of the curls. While it wasn’t pleasant when the fingers tugged at it, William leaned into the warm hand, eyes fluttering when the nails were utilized to scratch his scalp. He could feel the vibration of the other man’s laughter in his chest, and could almost visualize the smile on his face from the sound of it alone.

“You need a bath, my dear Will.”

A bath? He looked down at himself, having completely forgotten that the world did indeed exist beyond the wonderful fingers in his hair, and silently agreed with the sentiment. They stood still for a moment longer, both relishing in the company of the other, before Will was led from the study with a steady hand at the small of his back.

They meandered down hallways Will had never seen, ones he now couldn’t admit he was familiar with. It struck him as odd, that he couldn’t recognize his own home, but he let the topic drift away when they entered the bathroom. Grand wasn’t the right word for what it was; light swept over every pocket of the room, but it wasn’t blinding. A deep, claw-footed tub sat snug at the end of the room, the corner beside it holding a shower encased in glass panels that reached the ceiling. The walls were a creamy offwhite, in some areas a stacked collection of grey and brown tiles, and the back wall housed multiple hutches and cabinets fashioned from deep, reddish-brown wood and bone handles. The remaining wall was spanned by a marble countertop laid over the same-colored-wood cabinets, exotic plants and colored candles adding a personal touch to the otherwise-neutral space. The other man led him to the corner, but as they crossed the space, Will stopped in the middle of the floor and turned to the left, struck dumb with surprise.

Two men looked back at them, one gawking, the other blinking owlishly. One stepped forward, then, and Will jumped when the other clapped a hand gently over his shoulder, mouth splitting in that same crooked smile from before.

“It’s a mirror,” the other informed, “and what you’re seeing right now is your reflection.” He gestured to the two men standing ahead and encouraged Will to step closer to them, and Will obeyed, albeit hesitantly. He shifted the sheet around his shoulders and frowned when the person directly across from him did the same, looking between the reflection and the flesh-and-blood man beside him with no small amount of unease written in his features. The other didn’t withhold his entertainment and rather basked in Will’s discovery, looking pleased with himself. “You’re a striking boy, William, but there will be plenty of time later to admire yourself. Let’s clean you up, yes?”

Will scowled at him then but resigned himself to following the other’s lead, clinging to the sheet when it was gently lifted from his shoulders. His sour face persisted, but the man just smiled pleasantly at him and insisted on taking it, explaining that the fabric wasn’t meant to get wet.

At the mention of wetness, Will looked around, arms wrapped around himself to replicate and replace the warmth he’d lost. What was wet? The floor, a smattering of earthy-hued tiles, was cold, but it wasn’t wet, at least not in any way Will recognized. It was only when the other man turned something on the wall in the corner that Will began to figure things out; wetness existed beyond the confines of his mouth. Water hissed from the fixture in the corner, and he gawped at the man (getting only that same self-assured smile and a shrug) before jerking his head back in the direction of the shower and stepping toward it. It couldn’t be bad, if the man wanted him to step into it, right?

It was far, _far_ better than expected, and as soon as he stepped in, he knew he would have to be dragged out of it.

Hot water rained down on to his shoulders and face, and no matter how much came out from the showerhead at one time, it didn’t seem to end. Clay ran down his temples and back in dark grey rivulets, and his hair clung to his skull, the true color beneath the musty gray beginning to show through. He lifted his hands to the dispenser and filled them, and when they ran over and through the cracks between his fingers, he opened his mouth to catch it all, cracked into a wide grin. He was so enamored by the wet (“It’s called water, and what you’re doing is known as taking a shower,” was helpfully supplied from the side of the room) that it took him a few minutes to notice the hand that was most definitely not his poking past the glass barrier, palm up and fingers outstretched invitingly. Will took it, stepping out from the water reluctantly, and was brought to the tub next, clambering into it while the man turned the shower off.

This water was hot as well, although it carried with it an aroma and a tingling sensation that the shower hadn’t. It felt like an embrace, and Will reveled in it, head falling back and shoulders sliding down until his chin barely skimmed the surface of the water.

The man had drawn a stool over to the side of the bath and wasted no time sliding his fingers into Will’s hair, to which he responded with a low rumble in his throat and a flutter of his eyelids. The water slowly grew cloudy with filth as it was scrubbed from his hair and skin, but Will was far removed from the bathroom, floating elsewhere in his mind. It had been overwhelming, everything he’d experienced in the last few hours (he didn’t know how long he’d spent standing in the shower, nor did he have any real grasp on the concept of time), and so he succumbed to the benevolence of the other man.

Will slipped into a peaceful doze, then, and failed to notice the saccharine smile of the figure behind him, hands still trawling aimlessly through lathered-up cherub’s curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for the outpouring of love and support for this! I really wasn't expecting so much attention, but you've completely blown me away. This is my first time writing within the Hannibal fandom, and my first published work, so you are totally spoiling me.
> 
> If there are any errors that you notice or questions you may come up with, please, let me know in the comments! Thank you again for your excitement; without you, I wouldn't have pumped this chapter out mid-sickness. The next few updates will be coming slowly but surely.


	3. iii. let me follow - son lux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doing absolutely nothing is hard work, both men learn, as is completing everyday tasks.  
> One of them struggles with maintaining normalcy a bit more than the other.

Well, this certainly wasn’t what Hannibal had expected.

After the enigma (now known as ‘William,’ courtesy of the florist’s manual) had fallen asleep in the tub, Hannibal had spent a great deal of time studying him, testing his alertness by rinsing his hair out. When Will didn’t stir, he grew emboldened and tipped his chin back, peering down at him and allowing the pent-up tension to slide from his shoulders. Where had he come from? It was… Irrefutable, that this man had swapped places with Hannibal’s sculpture. The figure’s absence from his study and Will’s alarming resemblance was too coincidental, but how? He wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t hallucinating something awful, but then again, he was firm and grounded. He wasn’t under the influence of anything-- no hallucinogenic substances had been folded into his food, and he’d had no alcohol, at least not within the last few hours. A logical explanation for Will’s sudden manifestation just… Didn’t exist.

He drained the bath once the water ran cold, quickly rescheduling his evening in his head. He’d been planning on starting preparations for another sculpture, or perhaps a dinner party; the level of social interaction in his life had been waning, and he found he could soak up all the engagement he needed for a while when he hosted such extravagant evenings. With Will in his home now, however, he didn’t think it appropriate to have others over, and he found himself unwilling to share his creation with the outside world just yet.

A few minutes more passed without excitement, and so Hannibal stooped down to slide his arms around the back of Will’s shoulders and behind his knees, straightening up with a grunt of effort. His shirt quickly soaked through, but it was of little importance, the sleeping man snuffling into his chest and allowing his head to loll. The ragdoll behavior was endearing, but _Christ_ was Will heavy.

He figured he should put the man to bed, so off to the master suite they went, Hannibal maneuvering his cargo around awkwardly to keep from dripping water on to the floor. He normally would have settled guests in one of the aptly-named guest suites, but because of the extenuating circumstances, he thought better of leaving Will unattended lest he hurt himself or damage Hannibal’s property. Propping the unconscious man up on the padded bench at the foot of the bed, Hannibal fetched a towel from the hallway pantry and began the task of toweling the other off. He was clinical and chaste with his touches, finding disrespectful treatment of those otherwise unable to care for themselves unspeakably rude (as anyone should). The other man shifted and squirmed at times, but otherwise continued sleeping, much to Hannibal’s relief. He wanted to observe Will, yes, and would love to see him awake and alert, but he feared for the safety of his room and personal possessions due to the statue’s inquisitive nature. The towel was left on the floor for the time being as Will was moved up and on to the mattress, and Hannibal’s mouth quirked up into a micro smile at the sight of the boy lounging peacefully among viridian sheets. With his flushed cheeks and tousled hair, it was hard not to imagine him as a model posing for the Masters, and harder still to remember that this man was-- well, hardly a man at all, at least not a normal one. He ran his fingers along the curve of Will’s ankle and dug his fingers into the man’s hair, committing him to memory. His gaze darkened when it settled on his outstretched arm, bruises in the shape of his own fingers blossoming on his wrist. Hannibal hadn’t meant to grab him so hard, truthfully, though he couldn’t deny enjoying the marks he’d left behind. They served to humanize Will, at least a little bit; made of flesh and bone that could be rendered just like anyone else, the man was sensitive to Hannibal’s influence. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d felt giddy like this.

Hannibal left him to sleep off his shock, retreating further into the bedroom and simply observing from afar. He thought to sketch the man like this but decided against it, instead using his time to Google possible reasons for Will’s existence. Trawling through missing persons databases produced nothing, nor did looking up escaped felons in the area. That, at least, was reassuring, though not by much. He thought back to the open window in the study, but quickly discarded the idea that had barely any time to sprout; Will couldn’t have scaled his house in the nude, in broad daylight, and unlocked the window from the outside. It wasn’t plausible.

Then again, neither was the concept of his statue coming to life, so he was back to square one.

He spent at least two hours browsing results, with nothing vaguely helpful even gracing the front page (although there had been a very amusing entry on a Catholic forum about someone’s statue of Jesus’ crucifixion moving on its own, which had later been accredited to the owner’s cat butting up against it). Will had shifted and turned a bit, but Hannibal paid the fussing no mind, having stumbled across something of interest once he’d changed his search terms. A Greek myth, judging by the name; he hadn’t the time to peruse it, however, because his guest was stirring.

Will was just as elegant in his vigilance as he was in his exhaustion, although weariness added another layer of humanity to him. His hair was flattened on one side and his cheek red where it had been shoved up into the pillow, but Hannibal couldn’t find imperfection in any of this. The sheets pooled at his waist where he sat, introspective and searching, and the room warmed when his eyes lit upon Hannibal across the room. He truly was a stunning creature, and Hannibal glowed at the recollection that this man was the result of his very hands.

“I hope you slept well,” he said, setting his tablet aside and moving to the bed. Will, silent as ever, watched with honeyed eyes as Hannibal settled on the edge of the bed, tucking his legs beneath himself in favor of inching closer to his creation. He smiled more broadly when the man’s hand slid into his hair (a quickly-forming habit that Hannibal hadn’t the strength to resist, for the time being) and cradled his flesh against his cheek, plush lips pressing into the inner curve of his wrist. Hannibal studied him then, giving only the slightest of twitches when Will’s mouth pursed and left a proper kiss against his skin. Something Hannibal hadn’t felt in a long time niggled its way between his ribs, and he crushed it quickly, blank countenance returning within a matter of seconds. What a peculiar boy he was turning out to be, and he was all Hannibal’s to prod at. From their close proximity, Hannibal was pleased to note that Will smelled far better than he had before; curiously enough, he still carried with him the heavy musk of wet earth and saltwater, although they were lessened by the additional scents Hannibal’s subtly-spiced products and natural fragrance. It was intoxicating, to say the least.

Will didn’t seem to mind the staring, or he was being an exceptionally good sport about it, because he looked positively nonplussed. He did the same thing he’d done in the study, and it was a treat to watch the man suck up information like a sponge. He waited until Will stopped craning his head around to speak, thumb smoothing along the hollow between the bones in his wrist and hand. 

“You must be hungry by now.” At Will’s questioning gaze, he continued, blinking his own confusion away. “Surely you know what that is, Will. Have you felt hunger before?” The answering gurgle from deep in the man’s stomach was confirmation enough. Will had the decency to look sheepish, but Hannibal brushed it off; there would be no judgement here, not while the boy was so sensitive to the man’s criticisms. He had half a mind to really dig his nails in deep and expose Will to the _finer_ things in life, but he knew they wouldn’t be adequately appreciated, not this early on.

No, he’d just have to be patient.

Moving from the bed, he waited for Will to follow and noted only after the blanket fell away that he was just as naked as he had been before, and apparently unbothered by it all the same. He’d have to teach his boy some modesty, then, but for now, Hannibal wouldn’t deny enjoying it. Ever the intelligent man, Will noticed his lingering eyes and looked down at himself, taking notice of his bareness with a detached sort of amusement. The crooked lilt to his mouth charmed Hannibal more than it should have, and he chuffed when the former statue stretched his arms over his head, muscles flexing beneath the skin. What a tempting and _tasty_ thing he was becoming.

“I’d like for you to get dressed, Will,” Hannibal stated after a while, having memorized Will in his unbidden glory and committed the sight of him to the corner of his mind palace reserved specifically for him. It would have been idiotic for Hannibal to assume the other man would know hwo to dress himself, at least in any acceptable fashion, and he wasn’t about to let Will into his closet by his lonesome. They entered the room together and Hannibal sat the man down in an armchair while he shopped for something that would fit him. They weren’t drastically different in build, although Hannibal’s clothes were all tailored specifically to his dimensions; his best bet would be loungewear, as distasteful as it was, because the material would at least allow freedom of movement without being uncomfortably ill-fitting. In the end, he settled on a cable-knit sweater in a flattering shade of vermilion and a pair of pinstriped pajama bottoms-- the elastic waistband was unfortunate, but they would have to do for now until Will could be measured.

A set of briefs was handed to the man and Hannibal looked away as he slid into them, allowing Will to grip his shoulder for support when he stepped into the pair of pants. When Will couldn’t quite get the sweater over his head he helped with that too, and they stood chest-to-chest for longer than Hannibal dared breathe, both sets of eyes attempting to suss out what the other was hiding. Hannibal’s hands still hovered over Will’s biceps, and so leaning down to kiss him only felt natural.

Unfortunately, Will was in a playful mood, and so when Hannibal shifted to hold the back of his neck and encourage his head forward, Will took it upon himself to surge upwards and bite him square in the throat.

Needless to say, Hannibal retreated to lick his wounds in private after that, and Will watched him with far too smug an expression to have learned it on his own.

\--

Dinner was a quiet affair that found the two of them dancing around opposite sides of the kitchen island, Will with his tongue between his teeth and Hannibal with his figurative hackles raised after the man’s little stint in the closet. While he knew the little man posed no threat, he had still caught him by surprise, something that very few people accomplished and fewer still lived to gloat about.

Hannibal had settled on simplicity in terms of food, as he wasn’t sure what Will’s stomach could muster; he wasn’t going to let the man go hungry, but seeing as he had neither the time (nor the trust in Will) to make something up to his usual standards, he settled for comfort and efficiency. Keeping a close eye on the man wandering around the kitchen and dining room, Hannibal allowed himself a minute to truly study when Will paused before one of the paintings mounted on the wall. He could see the muscles in his back draw tight with tension, and just as quickly as they’d hunched up, they relaxed, and Will was back on his rounds. Strange, but he’d bring it up another time.

After silently worrying over Will’s burgeoning interest in the block of knives on the counter and the living wall in the dining room, Hannibal deposited the man in a chair and set before him a plate of various fruits gathered from his private garden, refrigerator, and fruit bowl. It was a distraction, and a bad one at that, but at least now he knew where the other was and what he was doing.

The paprikash wasn’t glamorous when it was finished, but Hannibal was pleased enough with the result. He taught Will how to set the table (nervous all the while that the man might break a plate over his knee) and served him with his usual flourishes, finding the normalcy of the performance soothing. He was most at ease in his kitchen, and that was very plain for anyone to see. Even Will was momentarily won over by his charm, eyes gleaming with intrigue as meat and sauce the same color as his sweater was ladled over homemade noodles. Two thick cuts of bell peppers, one a soft yellow and the other a vibrant green, were laid elegantly against the side, and Hannibal topped the plate off with a rose-shaped shard of cucumber and a thick potato dumpling. He filled his own plate, noticeably less so, and then poured the two of them their individual glasses of zinfandel.

“Veal paprikash, served over traditional Hungarian nokedli with cucumber and bell peppers.” Lifting the glass of wine to his face, Hannibal swirled the red around and inhaled subtly, relishing in the fruity scent. He had a preference for drier wines, but the syrupy semi-sweetness of the black cherry and melon flavor was wonderful when paired with the paprika’s understated spice. “Please, Will, enjoy.”

And enjoy, it seemed, Will did, because Hannibal had never seen anyone dig into a meal with such zest. He was particularly interested in Will’s reaction to the _veal_ , because, well-- it seemed his boy had developed a taste for those less fortunate than himself.

Michelle Vocalson’s kidney had gone over _terrifically_.

Nursing his drink, the man winced when his dining partner sloppily gulped at his own. Will must have picked up on his silent disapproval then, because he paused, looked at Hannibal with no small amount of scrutiny, and mimicked his proper etiquette with startling ease. Rather than rush to the bottom of his glass, he savored it now, squirrelled away behind the lip of the glass with equal parts mischief and mirth in his green doe eyes.

Hannibal would venture so far as to say Will knew _exactly_ what he'd eaten, judging by the impish look on his face, but that would be beyond preposterous. Based on the man’s reaction alone, this was his first time eating meat; in fact, this might be his first time eating _anything_.

His William was turning out to be quite the oddity, indeed.

Will surprised Hannibal by gathering their emptied plates and following him into the kitchen once their meal was finished, studying the way the man plugged the sink up and filled it with suds and hot water. He accepted the sponge from Hannibal with little more than a tilt to his head, squeezing the water from the porous material before pressing it to the lacquer of the plate. He joined Hannibal at the sink, and they became one person for a little while, scrubbing and drying together before Will was shown where the plates should be returned. He hadn’t finished his wine, so he returned rather faithfully to it, sitting back down at the right hand of the head of the table to indulge himself. Hannibal smiled at that; the darling had _some_ manners.

“You can bring that with you, so long as you’re careful.” Will again peered up at him from under delicate eyelashes, his mop of hair drying in haphazard waves over his forehead. Hannibal resisted the urge to brush his hair aside and instead offered his hand to Will, pleased when it was accepted with only a small amount of hesitance. That could easily be trained out of Will, with gentle encouragement and enough time.

They ascended the stairs slowly, Will taking great care not to disturb the glass in his hand. The red in the bowl shuddered and rippled beautifully, and more than once Hannibal was convinced he’d caught the other man about to dip his fingers into it. Hannibal brought him into the bathroom once they made it to the top of the flight, and, upon recognizing the space, Will immediately hurried over to the shower in the corner with the purest delight written across his face. While it was endearing, he didn’t want to deal with another sopping wet rendition of his new houseguest, and so he slid an arm around Will’s waist and drew him over to the counter and great mirror along the wall.

William’s frown shouldn’t have been as charming as it was when he encountered his reflection for a second time.

Content to ignore the man’s antics, Hannibal focused on his own nightly routine. He played the role of good host only long enough to deliver a toothbrush to Will’s hand, brushing his own a little heavy-handed. He could taste blood when he spat the excess paste out and flossed, and he glanced up only briefly to check in on the other man. Will was still toying with his reflection, so he moved on to shaving then, lathering his face, lower jaw, and throat with thick cream. His scent was some rare amalgamation of lime and mint, one of the more tasteful and pleasant gifts he’d received from a friend. Mrs. Komeda, he believed, actually.

Hannibal had continued shaving without issue, but stilled when he realized it had fallen silent. How long ago had Will stopped moving around and running the water? He looked over and was met with something likely to be on a parent’s list of nightmares: Will, crumpled cylinder in hand, had gorged himself on the toothpaste Hannibal had left out on the counter.

“Will, no-” The damage was already done, but Hannibal was fully aware that he hadn’t moved so quickly in months to reach the other man, who was already fleeing, apparently having realized that eating the toothpaste wasn’t the most intelligent thing to have done. Just as he had before, he wrapped an arm around Will’s waist and hoisted him back, much to the man’s chagrin. He held a kicking and thrashing William down against the tile and forced him to spit the toothpaste back up into a frankly disgusting pile into his palm, but at least he wasn’t going to poison himself now. He supervised the boy very closely, now, forcing him to swish his mouth out with water and open his mouth up (like one would do at the dentist’s office) to declare it clear before finishing his shave with exhaustion gnawing at his bones. The straight razor was hidden away in a spot Will hadn’t seen (Hannibal would have to remember to move the toothpaste tubes as well) before he dutifully led the both of them back to the master suite. Will was already dressed for bed, so Hannibal left him there and stepped into the closet, shedding the layers of his suit one by one and tucking them away with the utmost care.

When Hannibal stepped out in his own matching pajama set, he found Will’s abandoned in the middle of the floor, the aforementioned man lounging lazily atop the sheets. He had the decency to school his expression into one of neutrality, pausing a few paces from his bed.

“Would you like me to sleep elsewhere tonight?”

Will’s shake ‘no’ was the only answer he received, followed by the man’s unexpected compromise. He held his arms out to Hannibal, warm and open, and Hannibal obeyed the silent plea without further discussion.

Lying in someone’s arms was foreign to both of them, it occurred to Hannibal, lying on his side facing Will and staring him down.

The two men lay in near perfect silence for a while, until Hannibal shifted to hold the side of his head and pet over the curve of his shoulder. Will quickly adopted the same behaviors (‘Echopraxia,’ Hannibal thought to himself) and simply watched him until his eyes began twitching again, clearly fighting to keep them open. The gesture was disgustingly sweet, and Hannibal grinned before he could stifle it. Will’s responding smile was something else- maybe not worth the vulnerability Hannibal had just displayed, but certainly worth remembering.

Will was beginning to wind down now that Hannibal’s hand had migrated to his hair, and they’d changed up their positioning; Hannibal now lay on his back, Will sidled up into the gap between his arm and ribs, head pillowed on the man’s chest. The hair there tickled his nose; Hannibal felt it twitch and scrunch up a couple times before it stopped entirely, and soon Will’s breath left him evenly, rattling his ribs with every slow exhale. He felt… Strange. He loved Will, but that had been before all this, when he was the nameless statue, the lifeless _thing_ in the study. This man was no longer Hannibal’s own creation; the world was already shaping him, and he, too, was already forcing a spot for himself in the world, in Hannibal’s.

Perhaps he’d call Alana tomorrow, ask her a few questions about his situation. She was one of the brightest minds he knew; she’d know what to do, or she’d exhaust herself trying to help him.

He leaned over the side of the bed to flick the lamp off and faltered when the other man pressed his head more insistently into his chest, hand curling around the soft flesh that blanketed his ribs. He heard Will mumble something into his skin, the gibberish muffled and airy, and huffed through his nose; he could explore the possibility of Will's voice tomorrow. They had time. Hannibal hit the switch, then, arm tightening around the curve of Will’s fragile spine as darkness spilled from the corners of the room and swallowed them whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Toothpaste. Yum. :'')  
> All of the chapters have been renamed after songs that I listen to specifically to get into the right headspace for writing this!


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